OyChicago blog

Editor’s note: We chose to run this piece anonymously out of
respect for the author’s privacy as they continue to go through the process of self-repair
and the rebuilding of relationships. If you think that you or someone you care
about has a problem with alcohol, visit www.chicagoaa.org or call312-346-1475.
A sober alcoholic is on the other end of the line 24 hours a day. The Jewish Center for
Addiction also has
resources to help and can connect you with the Chicago Jewish Recovery
community.

Three memories stand out when I think
about High Holiday services at my childhood synagogue:

Little did I know that my subconscious
was indelibly imprinting those moments into my soul, and the words of UnetanehTokef would decades later become a daily meditation for me as a
recovering alcoholic working the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous.

In the days leading up to Rosh Hashanah
this year, I had the great fortune to mark 33 months of continuous sobriety. My
drinking days were riddled with thoughts and actions that caused physical,
financial, emotional, and otherwise tangible and intangible harms to my family,
friends, colleagues and myself. Some of these actions and their consequences
were evident to anyone within a mile radius of me. Like the Big
Book of Alcoholics Anonymous says, I was a tornado roaring through
town. Other actions and harms were more insidious – a carbon monoxide leak that
no one detects until damage has already been done.

Unetaneh Tokef is a Jewish
liturgical poem sung during the High Holidays, and the booming words etched
into my mind as a child translate to, “But repentance, prayer, and
righteousness/charity avert the severe decree.”

For me, this “severe decree” refers not
to being sealed in the Book of Life on Yom Kippur; it may as well be active
alcoholism, for when I’m drinking, I have no life. In order for me to stay sober
and live a happy and meaningful life, I need to pray, act righteously in
service to others, and make amends for my behavior.

Making amends is the Ninth Step in AA.
It is a process I have undertaken in the past two months (they suggested, of
course, that I complete the first eight steps first). As I spend more time at
work than anywhere else, the most egregious of my harms were in the workplace.
And therefore, the first amends I made were to colleagues and supervisors, past
and present.

But how do you approach a woman toward
whom you acted with such hostility, including occasional bouts of profane
ranting, that you were required to have mediation?

How do you look your former boss in the
eye, the one who once asked you point blank whether you had a drinking problem,
and to whom you replied with an adamant "no" only to repeatedly text
them during 3 a.m. blackouts in the final months of your drinking?

How do you work up the courage to
mention once again the unmentionable in your past? How do you quiet the
squirrels in your brain that busily attempt to convince you that you had a
right, a reason, a justification to act the way you did? How do you swallow
your pride, your fear, and everything in between?

Fortunately, there is a somewhat
standard script for making amends:

1. Tell the person you’re aware that
you caused them harm and outline what the harms were

2. Express regret that you acted in
these ways and that they were hurt

3. Tell them how you’re planning to
make things right

4. Give them a chance to tell you about
any harms you omitted or other ways you can atone for your behavior

5. Follow through on what you said,
showing them through your deeds and not just your words that you mean business

The Big Book tells me that if I am
painstaking about making these amends, I will not regret the past nor wish to
shut the door on it. I will comprehend the word serenity and I will know peace.
All sorts of fears will leave me. I didn’t at first have complete faith that
the promises would come true, but I did know that anything would be better than
the hopelessness, shame, loneliness and despair of my final drinking days. So I
shut my eyes and leapt in, embracing the idea that my past was my greatest
asset.

And fortunately, everyone I have
approached so far has graciously accepted my apologies. All have expressed that
the past is water under the bridge, that I am forgiven, and that they are
simply thankful that I took the time to talk with them. I hoped for, but
certainly did not expect, such compassion and immediate forgiveness. I am truly
grateful for this.

Even more powerful and unexpected than
the forgiveness from my colleagues has been the forgiveness I have experienced
for myself. I’ve learned that telling the truth and admitting when I am wrong,
no matter how painful and scary, and no matter the potential consequences, is a
freeing experience. And it was, in fact, my past—both the internal mantra UnetannehTokef and all that I had to atone for—that turned out to be an
unexpectedly valuable asset. My past is what has brought about this new wealth
of freedom.

Between the High Holidays, many
of us are reminded to apologize to our loved ones for our wrong-doings. This
fall, I also find myself ruminating over whether we, women, should apologize
less in our everyday lives.

After Joan Rivers passed away, I
began pondering how a woman so outspoken—and oftentimes offensive—was loved and
respected by so many. Rivers’ persistent, unapologetic and humorous approach
transcended generations. In the end, we all respected Rivers, no apologies
needed.

While Rivers began her career by
paving the way for female late-night talk show hosts during the 1960s, many
young people today will remember her as a sassy old Jewish lady with enough shtick to say
whatever was on her mind. Rivers was like an amplified and funnier version of
the Jewish relatives we know and love. She made us laugh, but more importantly,
she also taught women everywhere that it’s OK to speak their minds.

“We apologize for things that are
clearly not our fault, not in our control, or otherwise unworthy of an
apology,” Breines said. “Examples include apologizing for being hurt by someone
else’s offense, apologizing for being over-sensitive, apologizing when someone
else bumps into you, and apologizing for apologizing.”

I often find myself guilty of
these “unworthy” apologies and witness many other women behave similarly in
acts of over-politeness.

Breines went on to cite a study
in her article, which found that women may be more prone to over-apologize than
men. Similarly, the study found women reported committing more offenses than
men. In her research, she also found that men might have a lower offense
threshold than women do.

“Women may sometimes be
over-attuned, apologizing for perceived offenses that other people do not find
offensive or even notice,” Breines said.

I could write a novel about how
women are socialized to cooperate and men are socialized to compete—and many
books have already been written on the matter. Evidence of these gendered
socializations can be found in the minutia of our everyday lives.

A couple of weeks ago at work, I
was standing and talking with my coworker and she suddenly sidestepped and
apologized as another coworker crossed into her path. She then shook her head
disappointedly and explained to me that she had resolved to stop apologizing
for the space she’s occupying.

This moment was so simple, but it
gave me reason for pause. I apologize constantly: I move aside when I’m already
occupying a space someone is entering; I rush to apologize when I nearly bump
into someone as we cross paths; I apologize during meetings; I apologize during
large-group discussions when I have a point; I apologize when someone stubs
their own toe, isn’t feeling well, having a bad day, or even when someone else
has treated them badly; and sadly, sometimes I apologize even when the other
person has treated me badly. Generally, I apologize too much for everything,
and when examined more closely, the word, “sorry,” has lost much of its
meaning.

In a June 2014 Forbes.com article
titled “Why Are Always Apologizing?” contributor Ruchika Tulshyan examined
Pantene’s “Not Sorry” commercial ,
which plays on the stereotype that women over-apologize and should go forth
proudly. Of course, the commercial is about hair, but it’s also a commentary on
how women behave.

The commercial opens with various
scenarios, in which women apologize for asking questions at meetings, for
asking the time, for bumping into someone, etc. The commercial replays itself
without apologies to send the message that women should stop apologizing.

“Saying sorry doesn’t necessary
equate to showing weakness,” Tulshyan said. “But, the commercial makes social
commentary on how women, more than men, feel apologetic about sharing their
ideas, or their space, or … everything, actually.

“This commercial specifically
highlights moments where women apologize when they’re not in the wrong,” Tulshayn
added. “Handing over your child to your partner because you have other things
in your hand? Asking a question in a meeting? An apology doesn't seem to fit.
And yet, I’ve lost count on how many times I’ve heard a ‘sorry’ in precisely
these places.”

I’m starting to think “I’m sorry”
should not be a catch-all for expressing regret, empathy, sympathy, remorse,
and so on. While women don’t intend for it to be a “tell” of weakness, it
certainly isn’t making us stronger in its overuse.

Breines offers alternatives and
solutions to blurting out “I’m sorry,” which I found useful. She suggests
thanking another person, rather than apologizing for receiving a favor; she
advises to save the “I’m sorry’s” for when they count; avoid repetitive bad
habits when possible; apologize for your share of the conflict and no more;
embrace your own imperfections and don’t apologize for them; and seek support
when needed.

With the Jewish New Year upon us,
I challenge myself and women everywhere to strive to own the space we occupy,
stand behind our opinions and offer them freely, take ownership over our faults
and our strengths equally, and apologize in a manner that is proportionate to
the problem at hand without compromising our self-worth.

May this New Year give us
strength to trust ourselves more and truly make our “sorries” count.

As we
speak, Jewish housewives all over the globe are getting out their finest china,
their crispest tablecloths and their oldest recipes, all in preparation for the
Jewish High Holidays.

It’s
these holidays that bring some of my fondest memories with my family. Golden chicken soup with fluffy matzo balls, tart apples with sweet honey and the star of the dinner: the oh-so magical,
dreamy, melt-in-your-mouth brisket. Like many Jewish recipes, brisket gets its
roots from the need to use up some of the least expensive pieces of meat and
transform them into tender deliciousness. As the brisket cooks low and slow,
connective tissue breaks down, leaving a tender piece of smothered meat.

Growing
up, my aunt always made the brisket in our family. Every year she tried a
different recipe and every year her malnourished-looking niece (me) licked her
plate clean. Much to everyone’s surprise, brisket was this picky eater’s
favorite dish.

It had
become a ritual, I always came into the kitchen and tore off a piece of the
sacred meat and my aunt always asked me, “So, Mila, is it good?” And every year
I nodded in agreement as I sloppily licked the remains of the sauce off my
lips. My aunt’s brisket may not have been perfect, but it was hers and it
was always good.

As an
adult and a graduate of culinary school, my love for brisket has remained the
same. I made hundreds of briskets throughout my career and I was constantly
searching for my recipe. I wanted a recipe of my very own, and I tried hard to
find it. I made smoked briskets, crock pot briskets, French-style briskets and
the very worst – dry briskets. I took an idea or two from each recipe and
moved on to create my brisket.

This has
become my no-fuss, no-muss brisket recipe that I go to year after year.

If there
is anything I have learned from the hundreds of briskets I have made over the
years, the technique is one of the most important aspects. Go low and slow: low
temperature, slow cooking. This will allow the connective tissue to break down
and the fat to melt slowly, leaving you with that ultimate melt-in-your-mouth brisket.

There
must also always be an acidic component. I use both tomato acid (ketchup)
and wine to allow for a deeper and richer flavor in the meat and the sauce.

The best
thing about this brisket is that it is one pan and FREEZER ENCOURAGED. Make it
ahead of time, freeze it, and let it warm up in a 350-degree oven the day of
service. It will be perfection. Something magical happens when you freeze
foods like brisket, or my amazeballs. It just works! And it could not be easier!

You can
also do it in the crockpot, but my brisket never fits in there when I cook for
the holidays. I have 16 people coming over – lots hungry Russians to feed. I
like to use foil pans for this because I hate cleaning roasting pans … as do
you I am sure. Plus, because I end up freezing it anyhow, it makes more sense
to just do it in one pan.

When you
purchase your brisket, do not purchase it cleaned. Purchase it whole with the
fat still on it. And place the fat side UP when roasting. NOT DOWN.

This year
I made it two weeks in advance. Again, 16 hungry Russians and a Russian-style
dinner is not an easy task. I take all the precooking help I can get.

I promise
people will rave, plates will be licked clean and eager fingers will try and
get a slice in before you do. And you will be the ultimate host, with a few
less dishes to clean. Perhaps this time, I will even get a chance to sit down
and have a slice.

I was already sweating when we walked into
the yoga studio. We had been running late, as usual, and I had double-timed it
from the car to the building. Just before walking in, I remember hesitating.
Did I really want to go to Mommy and Me Yoga?

The truth is that I did want to take him
there. He had been going with his mom during the last couple weeks of her
maternity leave. She had been raving about how much fun he had in the classes.
I also knew this firsthand because she had talked me into going with her to one
a week earlier. Now, Mom was back to work and I was staying home part-time to
take care of the little guy. There was still a week left of yoga classes on the
package and I wanted to make the most of the investment. More than anything, I
wanted to make the most of my time spent at home with him.

As I walked into the room, staring back at me
were eight new moms and their little babies. I was the only dad in the class
and was having trouble making eye contact with anyone. I shuffled to an open
corner and laid out the mat, the baby and the blanket as quickly as possible.
Everyone was sharing their name, their baby’s name and age. I can’t remember
any of the other names because until it was my turn, I spent the whole time
rehearsing what I was going to say in my head.

It was my first time attending a “baby and
me” event all by myself. I was feeling so vulnerable and judged. Did these
women think I was creepy? Had they ever seen a dad at one of these classes?
What about the other babies, how were they stacking up to mine? That other boy
looks about the same age as mine, why is he moving more? Those women are breast
feeding, should I signal to them somehow that my bottle has breast milk too?
It’s not my milk, of course … I just know that some people can get judgmental
of others who use formula.

Then the music started and the teacher calmly
directed us into all our poses. My baby laughed when I did a cat-cow and
released a huge breath right into his hair. His giggles and smiles melted my
anxiety away; we spent the next 45 minutes breathing and stretching together.
At the end of the class, the teacher said that she hoped that I would come
back. I hope that I will too.

Right now, when asked where
I go to synagogue, I say, “I go to five.” I work at Temple Jeremiah, and I love
my community there – meeting all of the congregants has been one of the best
parts of my job. I enjoy attending synagogue with my family where I grew up, at
Beth Hillel Congregation Bnai Emunah in Wilmette. I attend two synagogues in
Lakeview, the neighborhood where I live – Anshe Emet Synagogue and Anshe Sholom
B'nai Israel Congregation. And I co-lead Windy City Minyan, a monthly Friday
night minyan in the city.

I love Jewish communities. I
love the diversity of customs, melodies, faces, teachings, architecture and
emotions.

So it’s no surprise that on
Yom Kippur last year, I found myself in three different synagogues in one day.
I spent the morning humming the melodies of the High Holy Days while greeting
congregants and meeting new faces at Temple Jeremiah; in the afternoon I sat with
my mom, listening to my dad, brother, and sister-in-law sing in the choir at
BHCBE; and I spent the evening Neilah service with my friends at Anshe Sholom.

That day, I experienced a
cross-section of our larger Jewish community, splitting my time between the
Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox synagogues. During Neilah at Anshe Sholom, I
found myself not paying so much attention to the words on the page, but
reflecting on Jewish peoplehood. The Jewish community – our kehillah – is made up of so many different
kinds of wonderful, dedicated, intelligent, interesting, and friendly people.

Our beauty is in our
diversity.

We Jews are a tiny
percentage of the world’s population. I pray that we can come together as a
larger Jewish community to be enriched by the uniqueness of our brothers and
sisters.

On that Saturday afternoon
in September 2013, driving back and forth between Northfield, Wilmette and
Lakeview, I had the chance to truly feel the richness of our people; to me, it
was like seeing the face of God.

This is what I had
surmised after an hour-long staffing of a bunch of big words and adjectives
being thrown around in an effort to explain why our bright child was struggling
so much with reading in school.

“Well, yes. But we
don’t call it that anymore,” they said.

“OK. But that’s what
it is, right?”

“Basically.”

Phew! I felt an
enormous sense of relief and gratitude. Relief that his struggles had been
noticed and pinpointed with a workable diagnosis and gratitude that qualified
help was on the way. What I didn’t factor in was the ripple effect for me.

I’ve written before
that I struggled in school, without any explanation as to why,
until 7th grade when a math teacher told my parents I was stupid and lazy. (I
guess you could do that back then without losing your job.) To be honest, the
wicked lady was half right. I had
become lazy – as a smokescreen. If I didn’t try, mediocrity and failure didn’t
feel so humiliating and it explained quite simply why I had done poorly.

So when my own
diagnosis of learning disabilities revealed itself, (outdated term again
apparently, but I earned it so I’m keeping it), I felt that same sense of
relief I felt for my child. I knew something was funky – for me, for him – and
when I was right, I felt vindicated.

Although I could
always see that my child was bright
and struggling, as a learning-disabled kid myself, I felt differently about my
own struggles. I believed when my parents told me I was bright, creative and
intelligent, that they were blinded by their love for me. (Translation: “My
parents don’t want to admit they have a dumb-ass for a kid.”) But when
objective, outside forces and people (with Rorschach pictures, stats and
everything!) revealed I was in fact a highly intelligent and capable child, my
world changed. I could suddenly hear that. My diagnosis was truly that
significant and I began to believe the good stuff.

I am hoping my child
feels this way. I’m hoping that the early diagnosis for him may have been so
primary, that all the self-doubt, shame and fear around school learning that I
felt, didn’t have a chance to nick him.

This whole process
reopened a tremendous amount of reflection for me. And like I said earlier,
relief and gratitude were the emotions at the top of my list. Also, somewhere
in there, I have experienced a tremendous amount of compassion for the young
girl I used to be, who spent so much time feeling inadequate and incapable,
trying so desperately to cover up my imperfect tracks in hopes of just getting
by.

I read this post to my
son in hopes he would be okay with publishing my thoughts on his journey. His
response?

Being
hungry is a funny thing. By funny, of course, I mean crazy. Is there a more apt
way to describe the raging forest fire that controls your every move? There
really is no better way to qualify it. Hunger is funny. Your last-minute decision
to have Arby’s for lunch, the attitude you gave your mother this morning, those
salads you’re force-feeding yourself – hunger did all of that. I don’t know
about you, but food can make me bark like a dog and cluck like a chicken any
old time she wants.

Nearly
every day, hunger reminds me that I am not yet a grown up. I regularly have to
talk myself out of walking down the candy aisle at the grocery store. Those
negotiations sometimes fail and when they do I can be found looking like a
third grader who has just returned home from trick-or-treating. The evil 8-year-old
in control of my brain often has other plans.

My
most recent run-in with my inner child involved an incident with Girl Scout
Cookies. In addition to having little self-control, I’m a bleeding heart. I
want everyone to win, so when a friend called to tell me her daughter was
selling Girl Scout Cookies … I bought a whole case.

A
case, like I’m Oprah. As if the way to save the world is by purchasing 24 boxes
of Samoas. I am a 38-year-old, grown-ass man. Why do I need 24 boxes of
cookies? Why couldn’t I just be a normal person and offer to buy three boxes? Three
is a nice sane number. No, I couldn’t do that. I needed 24 boxes. That’s 360
cookies, in case you’re wondering. I bought 360 cookies at one time with no
intention of sharing with anyone.

Maybe
you’re one of those positive people, and you’re picturing me carefully packing
away my loot in a freezer. Twenty-four boxes, that’s a lot – surely he has a
plan to ration those cookies for a whole year. Well, thank you for believing in
me, but you’d be incorrect. What? I’m supposed to eat a cookie a day for a year
except on Yom Kippur? That’s ridiculous. Who has that kind of willpower? Not to
mention: cookies can’t go in a freezer; they don’t wear coats. That’s cruel and
unusual punishment.

At
first I was mostly responsible. I had a cookie or two after dinner. I’d have a
cookie as a random snack. Then my crazy inner 8-year-old lost his tiny little
mind and declared war on that case of cookies. I couldn’t control myself. Here
a box, there a box, everywhere a box. I had a box for breakfast. I ate a couple
boxes of Samoas while watching TV. Three boxes for dinner. I was off the rails.
I had cookies as a midmorning snack, cookies in the car, cookies in the
bathtub. I was a hot cookie-addicted mess.

I’m
not sure how hunger works for most people, but mine definitely has a split
personality. The 8-year-old is absolutely in control more often than he should
be. When he isn’t sitting in the driver’s seat ordering fried chicken and
eating bags of Smarties, it’s the princess of kale, Gwyneth Paltrow, who’s in
charge. The two sides duke it out on a regular basis, which I think means I
have a bi-polar eating disorder.

Gwyneth
had been sitting quietly in a corner waiting for the Cookie Monster to do some
serious damage. It wasn’t until she noticed that my pants were fitting a little
tighter that she sounded the alarm. Gwynnie went into full-blown “captain of
the Titanic mode.” She was raising her eyebrow and wagging the stinky finger of
judgment in the face of all of my cookie-filled thoughts. Once I finished the
case of cookies, and yes, I ate an entire case of Samoas without any help thank
you very much, Gwyneth began enforcing very strict rules. She apparently has no
respect for goal-oriented eating.

Of
course, agreeing to cut back on cookies wasn’t enough. I had to go completely
wackadoodle. Our first order of business was to completely rid my life of
sugar. The princess of kale is evil. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but they don’t
make cookies without sugar. At least not any cookies that you would actually
want to eat. This was going to be very hard. I had been subsisting almost
exclusively on Samoas and Diet Coke and now I was in Girl Scout Cookie rehab.

Paltrow
dragged me kicking and screaming to Whole Foods and forced me to stare at their
lush produce. After gawking at piles of dead plants for what felt like an
eternity, GP challenged me to prepare a vegetable that I had never cooked
before as a way to get my health back on track. I reviewed the options and decided
to give beets a try. I choose them because they seemed harmless and when you’ve
been deprived of sugar they look like giant balls of chocolate. Challenge
accepted.

I
whipped out my phone and turned to the queen of the kitchen, Ina Garten. Ina taught me how to roast a Thanksgiving turkey;
beets would be a piece of cake, or cookie, depending on where your politics
lie. I gathered the beets, fresh thyme, raspberry vinegar and a large orange
per the recipe’s instructions and rushed home.

I
got right down to work the moment I walked in the door. I peeled and sliced the
beets and cut them into quarters. Those little suckers should have come with a
trigger warning; they bled all over my kitchen. Beet juice was everywhere. My
house looked like the set of slasher film. I tossed the horror scene onto a
baking sheet and into the oven for 40 minutes. I spent most of that time
scrubbing my hands like a surgeon and performing Lady MacBeth’s sleepwalking
scene. “Out, damned spot! Out I say!”

The
beets were delicious! I felt like a magician turning those purple mud balls
into something worthy of eating. I had eaten beets several times before and
loved them but this was different. I guess food that doesn’t come from a can
really does taste better. I missed my cookie diet, but I was proud of myself
for expanding my menu.

The
morning after roasting the beets I got up to go to the bathroom as usual. Apparently
taste isn’t the only difference between canned and fresh produce. I had the
most gorgeous fuchsia urine the world has ever seen. At first, I was
certain that I was on death’s door and immediately blamed the Girl Scouts and
their disgusting Samoas. It took me a few minutes to calm my panic attack and realize
that the beets had given me this little present. Then later, on my way to work, I get this
text message from my husband: “I have purple pee and poop, disturbing yet
beautiful …”

So
consider yourself warned: Beets, much like hunger, are a funny and sometimes
unpredictable thing. The real lesson here is moderation. Life should be 40
percent cookie and 60 percent beets, or is it the other way around? I never can
remember.

Remove
the tops and the roots of the beets and peel each one with a vegetable peeler.
Cut the beets in 1 1/2-inch chunks. (Small beets can be halved, medium ones cut
in quarters, and large beets cut in eighths.)

Place
the cut beets on a baking sheet and toss with the olive oil, thyme leaves,
salt, and pepper. Roast for 35 to 40 minutes, turning once or twice with a
spatula, until the beets are tender. Remove from the oven and immediately toss
with the vinegar and orange juice. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and serve
warm.

If before the season started someone told me the
Bears would be 1-1, I’d say that sounded about right. But I’d assume that meant
a win at home against Buffalo and a loss in the new stadium against San
Francisco.

But even after losing in Week 1 the way they did, I
did not count the Bears out on Sunday night. Going into Sunday, it didn’t look
good for us – Alshon Jeffrey and Brandon Marshall were still questionable on
the injury report, the defense was coming off a pathetic performance against an
underwhelming offense, and the 49ers were prepared to run all over us on the opening
night of their new digs. The script sounded like it had already been written.
And as the game started, it sounded pretty accurate. After a “just don’t ‘F’ it
up” three-and-out drive, the Bears’ punt was blocked and the 49ers very quickly
made it 7-0. Yup. I rushed home, avoided all social media and normal human
interaction for this? The hazards of being a Bears fan.

The Bears were playing not to lose. Partially
paranoid about making some of the bad mistakes they made last week, and
partially because of their injured receivers, who, even though they played,
looked slow and allowed the 49ers defense to focus on stopping the Bears’ short
game. But despite the tough start, the defense was actually keeping them in the
game.

The turning point came with under two minutes left
in the first half, when Jay Cutler took a helmet cannon to the sternum that
left me short of breath and clenching
my chest. But there was something about Cutler’s face when he got up that
struck me. I said out loud at that moment, “this is the turning point.” The
next play was one of the most incredible catches I’ve ever seen: a one-handed
grab by Brandon Marshall that looked like it could only have been made with
“Stick ‘um” like Rashid “Hot Hands” Hanon from Little Giants.

From that hit to the sternum on, Cutler
went 15-of-16 for 138 yards, four touchdowns and zero interceptions. But
it wasn’t just that. The Bears defense grew some cahones and ultimately kept the Bears in this game. Willie Young
was outstanding; Chris Conte made an interception flying through the air;
rookie Kyle Fuller had two picks; Jared Allen was pressuring the quarterback.
This was the defense we hoped to see. Not great, but forcing turnovers and
doing enough to keep them in the game.

Now, we cannot talk about this game without at
least acknowledging the fact that the 49ers accumulated about 800 yards in
penalties. That didn’t hurt. They got some big breaks. But a win is a win, the
Bears are now tied at 1-1 with everyone else in the division, and it’s all
about what you learn. I do think they learned some things this week. But I
still have concerns. The special teams are atrocious on both ends; injuries are
starting to get out of hand on both sides of the ball – most recently with the
report that Charles Tillman will be out for the rest of the season. And the
Bears still have a really difficult schedule ahead of them where the margin for
error will be non-existent.

The Bears have an extra day off this week to
recover, and then are back on the road and in primetime again on Monday night.
I still don’t know what to expect from this team week to week. They have yet to
establish an identity. But for at least the time being, they have given us all
permission to take our collective heads out of our ovens.

It is not a secret that holding onto something — an
idea, an object, or a person — isn’t healthy, but we all seem to do it. People
often tell me that they have unexplainable pain, and after we talk they start
to breathe and the pain magically disappears. As so perfectly quoted from the
movie Frozen, we all just need to “Let it Go.”

We are about to approach Shabbat Tshuvah, the Shabbat
between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, when we ask for forgiveness. However, we
also need to forgive. In the movie Frozen, Elsa, the eldest sister, can
never forgive herself for hurting Anna, the younger sister. If Elsa would have
forgiven herself she wouldn’t have turned everything into snow and ice.

There are many ways to work through emotional pain
and stress. We can exercise, sing, dance, paint, or even get acupuncture.
Acupuncture is an ancient Chinese medical treatment used to help all kinds of
problems, including stress. It is based on channel theory, where each channel
relates to a different organ, and each organ correlates to a different emotion.
Acupuncturists ask their patients a series of questions to find out which organ
seems to be the source of a problem.* Acupuncturists will then feel their
patient’s radial pulses (the pulse on the wrist closest to the thumb) and look
at their tongues to help clarify their diagnoses, and then they will treat
their patients. Tongue and pulse diagnoses are acupuncturists’ x-ray machines.
They are the primary indicators of how their patients’ bodies are working.

How does acupuncture treat stress? Everyone’s stress is
different, but acupuncture can help build you up if you are weak, calm you down
if you are anxious, and even relax your muscles, which will help you let it
go.

To further explain how an acupuncturist heals, I am
going to compare your body to the movie Frozen. Oh, yes.

Imagine your body is Arendelle, the kingdom in Frozen.
At the beginning, the town is beautiful, people are happy, and the king and
queen are alive. As time goes on, the town starts to fall apart. The king and
queen die, the princesses don’t know how to act, and eventually the town
becomes frozen. Our bodies go through the same thing. We start out with a clean
slate and as time goes by we become more rigid and life becomes harder.
Eventually, Elsa decides she is going to be okay and she belts out “Let it Go,”
but she isn’t better and the town is definitely not better. Throughout the
movie, Anna looks for Elsa to try to save her, and just when we think Arendelle
is ruined forever, the town is back and it’s blooming. The situation improved
because the root of the problem was fixed. Elsa accepted her powers, and Anna
realized that she didn’t need a man to be happy. That is what acupuncture does.
It works on the root of an issue and fixes it.

An acupuncturist strategically places needles in
acupuncture points to help nourish and strengthen the patient’s body. Each
point belongs to a different channel, and each point has different benefits.
Usually, this will allow an emotional release and help a person heal. People
are often stuck, and something within them needs to be moved. Acupuncture
points help stimulate the needed movement within the body and people start to
feel better. The only way to truly understand acupuncture is to consider it as
a means to allow the different parts of the body to work well as a unit.

In order for us to really feel good and be able to
belt out “Let it Go” on top of a beautiful ice castle, we need to relax and
find what makes us healthy. It could be, as in Frozen, accepting the
fact that you have gifts, or that the man you once loved is not all he’s
cracked up to be. Whatever it is, it’s about acceptance so that your whole body
can be healthy.

This Shabbat Tshuvah just, “Let it go! Don’t hold it
back anymore!”

*Note: When an acupuncturist talks about an organ
they are referring to the qi, or energy of the organ, rather than the organ
itself. Please do not worry that you have a problem with your spleen if your
acupuncturist says you have spleen qi deficiency.

With the Jewish New Year creeping upon us, I thought I would
provide some thoughts on how to change your money mindset for 5775.

Take a minute and think: have you ever asked yourself if you had
time to brush your teeth before bed or run to the bathroom before leaving for
work? Most likely not. You don’t evaluate whether you have enough
time to brush, you don’t add brushing your teeth into your daily schedule. You
just do it. If I asked you, “How do you manage to find time to brush your
teeth every night?” you would look at me like I was crazy. You don’t have
an alarm that goes off to remind you (or maybe you do … ) – you just do it.
Why should your money be any different?

My New Year’s resolution for you is to answer, “I just do it,”
when someone asks you about how you handle your money. How can you get
there? Pretty simply – change your mindset.

Start by telling yourself five simple things:

1. Financial
success is possible

Many individuals start off their financial journey thinking
pessimistically. Don’t! Start yourself out with a positive
attitude. Don’t whine, complain or talk badly about your finances. If
you want to build a positive attitude, start thinking with one!

2. Good things
come to those who act

It is not thinking, but acting that creates change. No matter
where you are in your financial journey, keep taking the next step, day after
day, year after year. Automate your savings. Pay extra on your
mortgage. Seek opportunities to increase your income. Stay active and
financial success will become foreseeable.

3. There is
enough to go around

The money supply is growing. Your money is yours to use in
the way YOU want. Donate to a charity, save more for a vacation … use your
money your way. Don’t feel bad about splurging on that shirt you always wanted,
the restaurant you have been dying to try or the play you have been dreaming of
seeing. Just because you have more does not mean someone else has less.

4. Act
like a millionaire

In Thomas J. Stanley’s book, The Millionaire Next Door, he describes the average American
millionaire – his total income is $131,000 per year, he never received an
inheritance and he didn’t go to private school. He drives a 5-year-old Toyota
and wears inexpensive clothes. He’s a homeowner who has lived in the same home
for over 20 years. He is a meticulous budgeter who invested nearly 20 percent
of his household income over the course of his life. Act like this millionaire.

5. Be curious about money

Educate yourself. Make money matter to you.
Stay curious and never stop learning and growing.

L’shanah
tovah – may 5775 be a sweet and prosperous one for
you and your family.

On September 27, 2014, I turn 10,000 days old. That’s
a lot of days of Adam. Lucky you, you didn’t have to spend all of them with me.

My life has been full of ups and downs, left and
rights, backwards and forwards, especially while I’m in a car trying to
navigate out of a parking garage. To say the least, it’s been a wild ride and
my name isn’t even Mr. Toad. (Whoever gets that reference is amazing.)

My almost 10,000 days equates to 27 years, 4 months
and 15 days, for those counting at home. And for those counting at home, you
should probably get a calculator.

I have had quite the multitude of memorable days, but
what follows doesn’t even begin to hit the tip of the iceberg. Because it’s a
list – it has nothing to do with ice. Berg, perhaps, since that sounds slightly
Jewish. Anyway, now I submit to you an abbreviated
account of the important days that have occurred for me over the last 10,000 of
them. Enjoy!

Day -1,297: My parents were married, thus
embarking on the greatest conquest of all time to have the most spectacularly
breathtaking, intelligent and incredible child the world has ever seen! Instead
they had me.

Day 0: I was evicted from my rent-free
studio apartment. However, given I was born at 11:57 p.m., it was only three
minutes later that it was …

Day 1: The only day I could use the excuse
that I was born yesterday.

Day Time: Usually about 7 a.m. to 8 p.m.

Day 8: I don’t want to talk about it.

Day 9: My first mitzvah. Organized and
executed a huge philanthropy for incoming Jewish baby boys on the truths, myths
and horrors of an event I don’t want to talk about.

Day Man: Fighter of the Night Man.

Day 1,181: My brother was born, and I was no
longer the favorite child.

Day 2,494: My sister was born, and I was back
to being the favorite child.

Day 3,479: I tried out for Home Alone 3, but instead was put on Oprah for a brief moment doing an
impression of Jim Carrey from The Mask.
This is absolutely true and quite possibly the peak of my acting career.

Day ?: A night to remember.

Day 4,082: The day I ran away from camp, was
caught by the police and became a hero to my fellow inmates at daytime sports
camp for fighting the man. Unfortunately, the man in this case was an actual
human and looking back on that the thought that I made adults not know where a 10-year-old
child was must have been terrifying. I was a jerk kid, man.

Day 4,757: The day I became a man. Also the
day of my Bar Mitzvah. It was one of my FAVORITE days. Heh heh. (My theme was “favorites.”)
At this age my theme would be not to have a theme and appreciate the Bar Mitzvah.

Day, Doris: Popular actress from the ‘50s and
‘60s.

Day 6,670: My first alcoholic drink.

Day 7,671: My first legal alcoholic drink.

Daisy: A pretty flower.

Day 8,989: The day I discovered how to open a
banana properly. From the “bottom.” My mind was never so blown. And I once
stuck a hair dryer straight in my ear.

Day 9,002: The ten best consecutive days of my
life began. That’s right, it’s the day I left for Birthright Israel, because it
was my birth right to go on birth right ever since I was birthed, right?

Day 9,182: The day I officially moved out.
Perhaps the most significant day of my life from the standpoint of never having
to wear pants at home. Ever again.

Dog Day Afternoon: A great crime drama film from 1975
starring Al Pacino and directed by Sidney Lumet.

Day 9,249: The day of Adam’s Appendectomy
Adventure, captured beautifully and hilariously in this incredible piece of bloggism! Found exclusively on Oy!Chicago!

Which brings us to …

Day 9,983: The day you are reading this. Well,
the day this was posted at least. I don’t know. You could be reading this in
2032 or something. By the way Adam, stop reading your old posts. Stop living in
the past!

But now I come to the question about what is going to
happen in just over two weeks, when I hit that landmark of life that most
people fail to realize even passes. So what are my plans? Well, I’ll tell you.

Day 10,000: A celebration the likes of which
have never been …eh, who am I kidding? I’ll probably have a beer.

So many people look back on their college
experience and say, “those were the best four years of my life.” Why? It
probably has something to do with whatever caused me to pay $25 for a water
bottle with my school’s name on it just so people would know what school I
attend when I go to the gym; the same thing that gives me a little flutter of
excitement when I happen across someone else wearing a shirt or hat with my
school’s name on the street. This “thing,” is the sense of belonging and
devotion to a place that shapes the rest of our lives in just four short years.
It is our affiliation, not to what our parents believe is a school they are
sending us to, but a cult.

A “cult” isn’t just a term for fanatics of a
certain belief system, it is by definition “a situation in which people admire
and care about something or someone very much; a great devotion.” Some characteristics
include: unquestioning commitment, elitism, polarized us-versus-them mentality,
encouragement or requirement of membership to live and/or socialize with other
group members and recruit new members.

Many of us who attended or currently attend
schools with enormous alumni networks and national followings, such as the
University of Michigan (hypothetically … of course) have likely experienced one
or more of the above. Unquestioning commitment to the “winningest” football
team in the NCAA (even when they don’t win) – check; elitist theory that we are
the “leaders and the best,” – check; living and socializing with other group
members, be it freshman dorms or at the local Michigan bar – check; polarized
us-versus-them (the infamous Michigan-OSU rivalry – check; and efforts to
recruit new members – well, the Michigan Wolverine baby onesies speak for
themselves.

Every college is its own little (or big in
some cases) community, one with its own language and customs that are
completely perplexing, and sometimes unknown, to the outside world. All joking
aside, however, our affiliation to “college cults” isn’t necessarily a bad
thing.

Our unconditional love for our schools
teaches us loyalty, while living alongside our fellow classmates and peers
produces lifelong bonds (or learning to tolerate and be respectful of others).
And as for elitism – a little confidence never hurt anybody (especially during those
post-undergrad job interviews). Our affiliation to a place and to an
institution that lasts far beyond four years not only shapes us, but also gives
us another place to call home, a friendly face at the office or in a new city,
friends and colleagues that will always support us.

Only once do I recall someone saying something anti-Semitic in my presence.

At a high school summer program away from home, a new acquaintance was speaking casually about shopping when she mentioned someone "Jew-ing" down the price. Her words stunned and stung me. I knew the word "Jew" has often been used as a verb in reference to being cheap, but the derogatory term had never been used around me.

Except for that moment, my only experience with anti-Semitism was learned from history and stories told to me by my elders.

For older generations of Jews, these sorts of encounters were par for the course. But for younger American Jews, many of us have experienced little to no anti-Semitism, especially in metropolises with large Jewish populations.

I thought we were moving past a lot of other "-isms" too. We have a black president, a woman has all but announced her candidacy to take his place, and we've witnessed one of the fastest shifts ever in the public embrace for same-sex couples.

On the whole, we seem to be morphing into a more open, tolerant society.

Until now.

As the war in Gaza exploded this summer, we've seen a surge in anti-Semitism and it's one of the first times many people of my generation and younger have faced this demon head on.

Anti-Zionism today is anti-Semitism dressed up in sheep's clothing—he two are one and the same in my book. People who want the Jewish state wiped off the map don't, as they claim, merely hate Israeli policy—they hate us and they hate that there is a place in the world where every Jew is able to become a citizen.

At the same time as the war in Gaza, we've seen a resurgence of anti-Semitism on the streets of Paris, Brussels, Berlin, London, and around the world—images that my contemporaries and I had seen before only in black and white film footage and in history books on Nazi Germany.

And anti-Semitism has reemerged in America too. While the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions movement has poisoned our college campuses from sea to shining sea for more than a decade, anti-Jewish and anti-Israel sentiment is stretching beyond campus walls these days.

For instance, in a Chicago cab recently, when my friend's driver got lost, and she asked him not to charge her for the extra minutes, he called her a "Jew" for being cheap.

Now, ugly episodes like that are becoming more commonplace. And, it's hipper than ever to speak out against Israel. Anti-Israel sentiment in Hollywood and on social media has reached a fever pitch.

There's no doubt, here and abroad, the year 5774 is ending in an anxious time to be Jewish. All the more, we should be grateful to ring in a fresh start in 5775, praying for peace and blessings as we prep for a new Jewish year.

In dark times, let's be mindful that despite thousands of years combatting hatred, persecution, and tsuris, most of us wouldn't trade our Jewish identity for anything.

After all, we're a people who know it's how we treat others that's core. We're a people who belong to a country that is a gift, whose defense forces are first responders on the scene worldwide, bringing their expertise when disasters like hurricanes and tsunamis hit. And we're a people who value family, community, education, deed, good noodle kugel, and laughter.

We've been through worse and we know that, ultimately, we will make our way out of the dark and into the light.

Wishing you and your family a new year filled with joy, good health, and peace.

In 2009, I compiled a list of kosher stands at sports stadiums. Recently, I went to Atlanta to see Turner Field and the Braves and I was disappointed that they lacked a kosher hot dog. So below is an updated list of kosher stands (some unconfirmed) at various baseball stadiums, their supervision, and products. I did not include ice cream stands, prepackaged goods, drinks, etc. I am hoping to work on other sports in the future, but in the meantime, happy eating (or not eating)!

Who tells you not to eat the last bite? Who forces you to split a
dessert instead of eating your own? And who makes you work out when all you
want to do is watch television and veg?

According to my wife, that person is “the most annoying husband, because
sometimes you want to eat your own piece of cheese cake.”

Ok, not quite the answer I was looking for when I told her what this
blog post would be about, but she has a point. Sometimes that voice is an outside
voice, but most often it has to come from within.

When I want to skip the gym, hit a food truck with a coworker, and
follow it up with a delicious (warmed up) Specialty’s Cookie, I use self-speak.
That might sound crazy, like I’ve read too many self-help books, or watched too
much Oprah, but that inter dialog, or
mantra, helps.

You do not always have the benefit of a trainer or husband annoying/motivating
you to be healthy. In those situations, I channel my inner Tony Robbins, and
tell myself:

1. I can’t be the fat trainer2. I already had Peanut M&Ms3. Exercising wakes me up4. Desserts are made for sharing

I remember in high school my friend would pound his chest before each
set. It was a little extreme, but it was a catalyst to work hard. I recommend
creating your own motivators, like thinking about being healthy for your family,
and visualizing them when you want to skip your workout. Have a few mantras in
your back pocket. No one has to know you are telling yourself:

- Kings don’t eat candy bars- Warriors workout- Fight fat

Your expression does not have to be an alliteration. It can even be a
song. Many athletes listen to music to pump themselves up for a workout or
game. Numerous studies have shown that listening to fast-paced music while
exercising increases the intensity of the workout. It’s impossible to listen to
“Eye of the Tiger” without getting energized. I don’t care if you are using
vinyl, 8-track, or cassette tapes – find some motivating music. When I need
some music motivation I turn to the following artists:

- Eminem- Notorious BIG- Jay Z- Beastie Boys

You can even Google workout music. There are tons of free soundtracks to
get your muscles moving. Your homework is to figure out what motivates you, and
use it to stay focused and achieve your goals.

And remember, if you really want an entire piece of cheese cake, call a
friend, or me.

I last visited the subject of Jewish graphic novels in 2009. Well, guess what? They went and wrote
more. Also, I found even more that I somehow missed the first time (in my defense,
there are a lot…).

Someone also went and made a real study of the Jewish
graphic novel and started anthologizing it. And they did an exemplary job. The Jewish Comix Anthology is
not just a labor of love, but of lust. The colors are rich and vibrant, the
paper is thick and glossy, and the book as a whole is weighty and substantive. I
don’t usually gush, but then I don’t usually see anything this gush-worthy.

The theme of Volume 1 is “myth,” so its stories are
collected from 40 years of graphic-novelizing on Jewish folklore, fairytales,
legends, and midrash. The work of
giants of the genre such as Art Spiegelman, Will Eisner, and Harvey Pekar are
included; even a Torah tale by friend-of-the-Jews Robert Crumb is among the 40
artists collected herein. Readers will find several takes on the Golem saga,
Chasidic and Chelm tales – stories from the Levant to the Lower East Side. The
care lavished on it shows in the curation of its content, too. The Jewish Comix Anthology is takeh a mechaya.

Steven M. Bergson, its editor, ran a chapter of the
Association of Jewish Libraries, and has a master’s in library and information
science. He clearly knows and loves graphic novels, and wanted to make
something you’d want in your library. The
Jewish Comix Anthology succeeds in giving graphic novels the kavod, the gravitas, they have earned.

Other recent contributions to the Jewish graphic novel
bookshelf deal with, naturally, the Holocaust. Reinhard Kleist’s The Boxer, as
its subtitle explains, is “The
True Story of Holocaust Survivor Harry Haft.” It is
the tale of a scrappy kid who learns both the ropes of survival in Hitler’s
Europe and the ropes of the boxing ring. The book concludes with capsule
stories of other Jews forced to fight each other in the death camps by bored,
sadistic Nazis.

We Won’t See Auschwitz is a
post-Holocaust story about two French-Jewish brothers – one, the author, Jérémie
Dres. Rather than see where their ancestors died, they decide to see how they
lived. The brothers visit Poland, but instead of Auschwitz, they see their
grandfather’s native village of Zelechow, their grandmother’s hometown of
Warsaw, and a major Jewish festival in Krakow.

Berlin,
however, is a pre-Holocaust trilogy, told as the sun sets on the Weimar
Republic. In the first volume, City of
Stone, Jason Lutes introduces us to the journalist and artist whose
stories we follow. The second volume, City of Smoke, details tensions brought
by the May Day demonstration of 1929 and the relief proffered by American jazz.
Book Three is not out yet.

Another graphic novel
is set even earlier, at the turn of the twentieth century. Leela Corman’s Unterzakhn,
Yiddish for “underthings,” is about twin girls in the Lower East Side, circa
1910. They learn about the options that exist for women of their time, most of
which are not that attractive. We follow them up to adulthood, when they
discover the consequences of their earlier choices, often made in the name of
self-preservation. The drawing style is reminiscent of Persepolis.

Jewish history is a rich trove of material for Jewish
graphic novelists. Still, let’s hope some turn their attention to the events of
today… or even try to imagine Jewish life in the future.

The Jewish United Fund of Metropolitan Chicago is the one organization that impacts every aspect of local and global Jewish life, providing human services for Jews and others in need, creating Jewish experiences and strengthening Jewish community connections.